


Make Peace with the Stars

by achievement-bender (Themanofmanyhats)



Series: To Save the Gods [3]
Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Gen, Sky Factory AU, i went berserk and wrote this in one night, minecraft au, probably need to read to save the gods for this to make sense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2019-11-04
Packaged: 2021-01-22 21:21:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21308800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Themanofmanyhats/pseuds/achievement-bender
Summary: The world knows there are gods watching over them. How many, exactly, is a contentious topic.
Series: To Save the Gods [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1529015
Comments: 35
Kudos: 98





	Make Peace with the Stars

**Author's Note:**

> _You taught me the courage of stars before you left_   
_How [light](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h3lWwMHFhnA) carries on endlessly, even after death_

The world doesn’t understand it, at first. (Never really do, you could argue. Could never understand it in the way _ they _do.)

The world looks up and sees the stars dancing, twinkling relentlessly, the darkness between them somehow growing deeper, richer, and they don’t know what it means. Still remember the last time the night sky acted out, how the world had gone to ruin after. The wounds from that are still too fresh and even though the stars look undoubtedly joyous, it’s a little terrifying, that first time. 

The common people shut their doors, kings call for the priests, and the priests get down on their knees before their altars. Offerings are lain. Prayers are made. They ask for guidance, explanation, desperate not to invoke the wrath of the gods once more. The gods answer in strange ways. They always have. It’s a jumbled message written in entrails and strange dreams and visions induced by questionable incense smoke. Something’s _ happened_, the priests agree. Something _ good_, most think. Just exactly _ what, _they’re not sure. The temples of the Blood Mage say their patron seems exceptionally happy, making magic of all kinds suddenly more powerful. Perhaps one of his rituals has gone well? But then the followers of the Solar Queen and the Wanderer say their gods are celebrating, making the sun strike harder and the flowers bloom brighter. Another marriage? Some other occasion worthy of honor? The temples bicker, all citing their own gods as the source of celebration, and nothing is agreed on.

A man riding in on horseback says he’s heard a rumor from a preacher in a far off city. They say a new god has joined the five. (It’s a lie on two fronts. There’s no such preacher — the man is the source of the story himself — and he calls it a rumor even though he knows it is nothing but truth.) The rumor stays a whisper for years. It’s a preposterous thing, after all. A new god? It’s never been heard of. Yet the rumor never dies away, just cycles in the undercurrent. The idea is a foreign one and no one wants to say, but when the thought of a new god comes to their minds, they can almost, _ almost, _see an image.

Then, it happens again. This maddening twinkling of stars, the entire sky bursting into dance. A celebration, most say. What for, they don’t know, just watch, entranced. (They don’t know of the warrior with fiery red hair who’d fallen in battle that day. The three who do look up at the sky knowingly. They mourn, but pride quickly blooms and overtakes the feeling.)

The stars burst again. (For a man who’s cough finally gets to him.) Again. (A man who goes to explore past the horizon and never returns.) Again. (A woman at the end of a long, rich life.)

The rumors persist. There are new gods, five, one for every clap of the skies, they say. Gods of what exactly, they’re not sure. (The gods are still figuring that out, too.) But they can feel their presence. Deep in the mines. Under the beams of old buildings. Before serving a meal made with love.

Some call it heresy. There are five gods, five and only five and to think there are more is an affront to the Universe. It's hard to dig up old roots, even when the tree has withered, so the traditions stand, even when the skies grumble. The shrines to the new five are forced to start small, tucked away in city corners or hidden deep in the woods. (They're lucky the new gods are not vain ones.)

Decades pass. The pantheon of ten is more widely accepted, but the quarrel between the two sides still broils. One says ruin will come from worshiping false idols. The other says to ignore true gods will bring catastrophe. The only thing they can agree on is that disaster is inevitable. (And with the gods being who they are, it's true, isn't it?) It still comes as a shock when golden comets drip down from the heavens. Ten, falling one after another.

The priests know the stories from hundreds of years ago, of the stars falling and how the world withered for years after. Desperate to avoid disaster, they rush to their altars, giving up offerings and pleas, ask kings to erect temples and statues, and many do. In the end, there are no plagues, no famines, no wars. The panic dies away, though the world is not unchanged. There’s a silence in the temples. An emptiness in the skies. Not cruel. Not as if they’re being ignored, shunned. Just this unwavering feeling that there's no one home at the moment. 

Decades pass. The silence persists. Prayers go unanswered, but calamity never strikes. The people grow to expect less from the gods and more from themselves. Organized religion falls out of favor. Old shrines are paved over, allowed to be taken back by nature, or preserved as relics of the past. Priests and clerics are few and far between, though the ones left are passionate. They take to the streets, some crying of the end times, some saying the gods are cursing them for abandoning the old ways, and some professing how the gods have fallen and walk among them now. No one knows, in the end. Never will, you could argue.

(A preacher who’s lost his temple stands on his soapbox and beseeches a crowd of ongoers to listen. Most walk past. A few stop and stare. One of them is a man with a mischievous glint in his eye.

“Gods walking among mortals?” he says, “That’s ridiculous. Completely ridiculous. Right, Fredo?”

A second man screws his face up in thought. He shrugs. “I don’t know, Trevor. Maybe they’re onto something.”

The two pretend to contemplate for a second before sharing a devilish grin. A third rolls his eyes. “You’re hilarious. Now stop giggling at each other and hurry up, we need to get back to the cove.”

“Oh, you’re no fun anymore, Jeremy,” the first one says, before the three turn their backs on the preacher and disappear into the crowd.)


End file.
